Day after day such traffic as used the highway passed heedlessly by, while in the cabin back under the trees a screaming parrot kept vigil over the lifeless corpse of his master.
Not until several days after the murder, on Sunday, September eleventh, when fishermen came in large numbers to line the stream, did anyone suspect anything was wrong.
By that time the parrot’s shrill, raucous cries, interspersed with harsh profanity, attracted attention.
“Polly wants something to eat. Dammit, Polly wants something to eat. Don’t you damn fools know Polly’s hungry?”
A neighbor, who owned a nearby cabin, had investigated. Peering through the windows he had seen the parrot, and then had seen something else which made him telephone for the police.
The murderer had evidently had compassion for the bird, but none for the master. The cage door had been left propped open. Someone, apparently the murderer, had left a dish of water on the floor, an abundance of food near the cage. Food remained, but the water dish was dry.
Mason looked up from the newspaper and said to Della Street, “All right, Della, let’s have him in.”
Charles Sabin shook hands with Perry Mason, glanced at the newspaper on the table, and said, “I hope you are familiar with the facts surrounding my father’s death.”
Mason nodded, waited until his visitor had seated himself in the overstuffed, black leather chair, and then inquired, “Just what do you want me to do?”
“Quite a few things,” Sabin said. “Among others, I want you to see that my father’s widow, Helen Watkins Sabin, doesn’t ruin the business. I have reason to believe there’s a will leaving the bulk of the estate to me, and, in particular, making me the executor. I can’t find that will in searching among his papers. I’m afraid it may be in her possession. She’s fully capable of destroying it. I don’t want her to act as administratrix of the estate.”